Awake
by somehowunbroken
Summary: The just keep telling him to stay awake. Mild slash, John/Cam.


"Stay awake."

John struggles to open his eyes, to separate the darkness behind his lids from the darkness of the room. It's the same phrase he's been hearing for hours now, days even. There is no light in this room, hasn't been since he was tossed in here, but his captors can tell when his eyes slide shut. He hasn't been allowed to sleep.

He's no longer sure how long he's been in here. If someone were to tell him a day he would believe it; if they said a week, he'd believe it just as readily. Time passes oddly in a room with no light and no sleep, no way of marking its passage.

"Stay _awake_."

When he's most in danger of losing the battle with weariness, his captors enter the room and inject him with something. It's adrenaline, or a drug like it; afterwards, he perks up, pacing around the cell as best he can. Afterwards, John feels almost like he can see in the darkness. It fades, though, after some time, and he slumps down to the floor, exhausted again.

He can't drag himself up, can't drag himself out of his stupor this time, and he hears the door slide open, hears someone shuffle towards him. The person picks up his arm and flicks expertly at the inside of his wrist, raising a vein and sliding the needle in. It's his ninth such injection, and John wonders again how whoever it is can see to administer it. The person leaves, and soon enough John is bouncing around the room, jittery from the medication.

He crashes some time later, and he hears the voice again. "Stay awake." It's never accompanied by any other words, no threat ever made explicit, but John hears it all the same. He forces his eyes open, stands, walks slowly around. The highs and crashes are his only way of measuring time, such that it is, and he wonders if _tenth time's a charm_ will work any better than ninth or eighth had as the person comes back in.

He's too tired to even attempt an escape. He's too tired to do anything but wait for the medication to kick in, and as he tries to keep his eyelids peeled open, he wonders how long his body can take this, how long he can go without sleep before he collapses and dies from the strain. Judging by the fact that it's taking longer and longer for the medication to kick in with each injection and it's lasting for shorter and shorter bursts, John's sure that it's really only a matter of time. He laughs to himself at the joke. Time has no meaning in here.

Then, suddenly, there's light, so bright and unexpected that John screams harshly, cowering in the corner against it. There are voices, too, saying more than a two-word phrase, and they sound familiar, though he can't place them. There are hands and murmurs around him, on him, and someone is grabbing his arm, hauling him up, repeating something in his ear, over and over and over.

"Sheppard." It's his name, he realizes suddenly, and wonders if he can make his voice form words. He jerks against the body holding him up, vision blurry after being out of use for – how long? – and the person lets go, surprised. John slides to the floor and squeezes his eyes shut. The adrenaline in his veins is his own this time.

"John." The same voice, the same person, and John forces out a word.

"Who-"

"John, it's me, it's Cam," and the voice and the blur solidify in front of him into brown hair and blue eyes and safety. John pitches forward into him and Cam reaches out his arms, wraps them around John's body, and stands both of them up. "Keep moving. We have to get you out of here."

"Where…" he tries, but it's hard. Words are running through his brain but his lips seem to have forgotten how to get them out. His eyes slip shut again and he stumbles, but Cam's got him, and they keep moving. He can't help it. He's crashing again, and he's sure he won't be able to stay upright for long.

"Later," Cam promises. John realizes that they've stopped moving and tries to open his eyes, tries to see what's going on, but instead his knee gives out and he's falling, falling, and he doesn't know how to warn Cam that he's going down.

When he next opens his eyes there is light, but it's dim in the room. He's in a bed, a luxury that he can't ever remember feeling grateful for in this way before. He can hear steady beeping and someone else breathing. Pieces click together as he takes the time to look around, to see; he's in the infirmary, in an isolation room. Cam is sleeping in a chair close by. John only closes his eyes for a moment, to clear his vision, but he slips back under instead.

He wakes back up some time later to a louder beeping. A doctor he doesn't know is standing over him with a little handheld machine, holding it over his head, and the woman smiles when his eyes open.

"Colonel," she says warmly. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

He's having trouble with words again. He doesn't even try to open his mouth this time. She frowns.

"Can you hear me?" She's speaking very clearly, over-enunciating her words. John nods. "And you can understand me?" Another nod. "Can you speak?"

He's not sure, but he doesn't want to try. He hears another voice, sudden and familiar, nearby. "Let him be, Doc. He's had a rough week."

The doctor turns and frowns. "Colonel Mitchell," she says crisply, and John thinks, _Cam_. "I'm trying to find out if he received any sort of brain damage while in captivity."

"No," John forces out, the word strange when forced through taut lips. The doctor turns back and smiles.

"Your brain scans are clean, at least," she informs him. "You have track marks, though, up and down your arms. Do you know what they gave you?"

"Shot," John makes himself say, and holds up all of his fingers. Ten times. Ten shots. His eyes are sliding shut again, but the doctor keeps talking.

"Colonel, I really need…"

He hears Cam's voice again but can't make out the words. He's already asleep.

The doctor is gone when he wakes again but Cam is still there. He's awake, too; he's got a book open in his lap, but as John watches him, he realizes that Cam's just staring at the page. John moves his foot against the railing and Cam looks up. He smiles as he stands and drags his chair closer to the bed.

"Can you talk?" he asks softly, holding a cup of water out. John takes it gratefully and sips for a moment before trying.

"How long?" he asks, then frowns. It takes a concerted effort to make a full sentence pass through his lips. "How long was I there?"

"Eight days," Cam replies, taking the cup. He hesitates. "Did they let you sleep at all?"

John shakes his head. "Gave me shots." His hands ghost over his wrists, remembering the utter darkness, wondering at the technician's skill to administer the drug. "Dark. All the time."

"I know," Cam says. The light in the room is still dim. "Doc says your sight will be fine in a few days. You just have to readjust." John nods and leans back into the pillow. "You want to go to sleep again?"

He nods again but keeps his eyes open a little while longer. "You'll stay?"

Cam sits in his chair, right next to John's bed. "As long as you need me."

"Keep the lights on."

"I will," Cam promises, and as John goes back under, he feels Cam take his hand and whisper, "Go to sleep."


End file.
